Defiance and Conviction
by SolarRose29
Summary: What if Edmund had left during the Battle of Beruna, just as Peter asked?
1. Chapter 1

_I understand and respect the spiritual implications of the story, who Aslan represented and why he came back to life. But this was just a quick idea I wanted to explore._

* * *

Mr. Beaver leads him up the rocky hillside. Edmund turns back for a final look at Peter. His brother is surrounded by enemies. Edmund hesitates.  
Mr. Beaver gestures ahead urgently. "Peter said get out of here!"  
Peter's final requests echoes in Edmund's head, desperate and pleading. Edmund leaves.

The thin line of stragglers trailing behind him isn't much of an army. But Edmund is grateful not to be alone. His stomach twists horribly under his ribs, heart striking quick and painful above it. They make it to the camp, the empty tents where only hours earlier they had planned for the battle which went so wrong. There's no sign of Susan or Lucy.

They send word by dryad. A meeting is arranged. Edmund takes his band of weary soldiers south. Susan and Lucy, teary eyed and exhausted, are waiting for him. When he tells them it's time to leave, Lucy protests. Susan says nothing, but her eyes hold relief.

They have only reached the Great River when they're ambushed. Harpies and Wolves and Tigers. They're outnumbered, pinned against the water. A gryphon appears, scoops them up and takes them just across the waterfall before an arrow pierces him through the chest. They crash in the forest. Miraculously uninjured, Edmund urges the girls forward. The fallen gryphon lies motionless on the ground.

That night, they cower in an abandoned burrow. Lucy weeps for Mr. Beaver, for the brave gryphon, the soldiers who held off the enemies at the river, and for Peter. Susan admonishes sleep. Edmund does neither. He stares into the patch of night sky he can see through the entrance, sword clutched between two shaking hands.

They leave while it's still dark. The howling begins soon after. They are being pursued. There is far to go. Without a guide, it is difficult to stay on course. He keeps heading west. It's all he can do. Lucy tires easily. Edmund remembers how the Witch's sleigh flew across the snow, and shudders.

Ice creeps over the ground. Edmund notices this when they're lying under a Rabbit's worn quilt. The kindly Animal offered them shelter for the night, a choice she might not live long enough to regret. The Wolves are circling. Lucy tells him Peter has already killed their leader. That should be more comforting than it is.

Snow is falling when they finally reach it. The lamppost. His sisters shiver in their summer dresses. Just a little further and then branches turn into coats. The wardrobe door is ajar. Susan is the first one to go through. Lucy follows after. And Edmund...Edmund backs away and slams the door shut.  
Lucy cries, "Edmund, no!"  
He did as Peter asked. The girls are home.

He doesn't stay in the woods long that first day. He can't let the witch find out his sisters have gone. So Edmund wanders. His armor weighs on him but he doesn't dare remove it. The returning winter can mean only one thing - the witch has won.

It's hard to imagine but there are Animals and Beasts still loyal to him as Aslan's chosen king. He doesn't know how they find him but they do. Their numbers grow to the point they need some sort of camp. Edmund decides on the Shuddering Woods. There, they form a sort of base. It's not much but it serves to give them hope.

There's a half-formed thought drifting like a specter in the back of his mind. Edmund mulls it over, contemplates it from every angle. He means to mount a resistance against the White Witch. They have no chance against her and her forces in open warfare. But perhaps if they carry out small raids, such as the one that rescued him when he was her prisoner, they can chip away at her army, at her hold over the land. But there's one thing he must do first.

His gut aches fiercely as he slips from shadow to shadow beneath the full moon gleaming across the Fields of Beruna. Vomit threatens constantly as he moves through the carnage. The witch and her followers have not bothered to bury their dead. The stench is overwhelming. Decomposing, rotting corpses litter the plains. Some have been picked at by scavengers. Edmund swallows bile and continues his search.

The stone captures every detail. Each strand of fur, every tensed muscle. Expressions of terror and pain preserved in full. There must be hundreds of statues in total. Edmund brushes the snow from a stone centaur. Oreius, the faithful general who carried him away from the witch's camp, who taught him to wield a sword, who supported Peter as leader in Aslan's absence. A single tear slides down Edmund's cheek.

The night gradually gives way to morning as he completes his search. Edmund has not found Peter. He was certain he would discover him, flesh turned to stone, frozen in time. But his brother is not among the statues. All he feels is dread. If the witch has spared Peter, it is only for far worse torments.

Days pass. Turn into weeks. Narnia is locked in bitter winter once more. Edmund trades his armor for a warmer, flexible leather jerkin. He is careful, doesn't take risks, posts lookouts. The witch won't get one scrap of information about the rebels if he can help it. Their seemingly random raids on her patrols, scouts, and strongholds are thoughtfully timed and meticulously organized. He's watching her, gauging her reaction, plotting his counter attack. Turns out, he has a mind for strategy.

Only a select few come with him. The bravest and the swiftest, the most loyal. Noble, all of them. Philip never falters as Edmund directs him to the imposing palace of ice. The heavily falling snow grants them the advantage of arriving unseen. Due to the recent attacks on her followers, the witch has increased her guard. Edmund takes a certain pride in that.

The others wait outside, safe in the shadows of the castle's pointed spires. Edmund goes in alone. He's noiseless as he glides like a wraith through the cold, narrow corridors. Once, he presses himself into an alcove to allow a pair of boggles to lumber by. Though he remembers well the way to the dungeon, the screams guide him to the castle's deepest, darkest depths.

Mist wreathes his legs, curls up his thighs as he creeps round a corner. All at once, his heart misses a beat, his throat closes, and his stomach plummets. She's here. The White Witch herself is barely ten paces in front of him. His hand goes to the dagger in his belt. But before he can make use of it, he catches sight of the prisoner kneeling in front of the witch.

Bruised and bloodied, Peter is only kept upright by the two minotaurs flanking him. Yet he stares, defiant, at the sorceress. Edmund's vision hazes over black as he lays eyes on his brother for the first time since the lost Battle of Beruna. The crack of the witch's hand against Peter's face splits the air. She's angry. Peter reels. Regains his balance and sets his jaw.  
"I serve only Aslan."  
The very name of the Lion enrages her and she raises her wand. Edmund tenses. Farther off, a wolf howls.

A dwarf bursts into the cell. A band of traitors has been spotted. The witch says nothing. Then she picks Peter up and tosses him to the far wall as if he weighs no more than a shoe. The dagger is tempting in Edmund's hands. But the witch is already leaving, escorted by the minotaurs. He has missed his chance. He makes to run into the cell but that opportunity also slips passed him. The door shuts with a clang, lock falling into place only a breath before his hand grabs it.

He can't stay. He has neither the tools nor the time to pick the lock. But Peter is right here! The mission was to rescue him. Yet, without the element of surprise anymore, Edmund can't afford to linger. If the witch finds him, she will kill him and any hope Narnia has dies with him. He must be a king first, brother second. If only he could let Peter know he came for him. That he will return for him. But Peter hasn't stirred. Edmund takes his last chance at freedom and turns his back. Behind him, Peter's eyes flutter and open wide when they settle on his disappearing form.

Months pass. Sometimes, when dawn crests the horizon and his troops settle in for some well earned rest, Edmund wonders about Susan and Lucy. Wonders how much time has passed in England. Perhaps only minutes. Maybe days. He wonders if they will return. But he always keeps in his mind, at the front of his thoughts, Peter's defiance and conviction. He remembers the Stone Table and the sacrifice made for him. He vows to honor Aslan and Peter. Their actions will not be in vain. He vows to kill the White Witch.

A gleaming sword in his right hand. In his left, a shield emblazoned with a crimson lion. Around him, winter rages. Snow and wind, and the harsh pounding of blood in his veins. Here, the White Witch. Edmund lunges.


	2. Doubt and Contempt

for **Anonymousme**, who asked for a continuation :)

(_also this is a bit self-indulgent because I've grown attached to this AU_)

* * *

The door shuts with a certain finality that Susan registers as an echo inside her ribcage. Lucy cries out and leaps forward, tugging it open and thrusting her head into the coats and the gloom. But that's all there is to find. Susan knows this even without looking. Narnia is out of reach. And so are her brothers.

It falls to Susan now to tell someone. The role is a familiar one. With the war going on, she learned responsibility quickly, especially in the face of Peter's hesitancy to take any sort of charge around the house. How quickly that changed in Narnia. For a moment, she had glimpsed the sort of man her brother could be, if only he did not give in to doubt and fear.

Her mother is in Finchley, miles away from the mansion in the country. Mrs. Macready dislikes children as it is. Susan doesn't think she'd be of much use anyway and it is the professor's house after all. They're under his care. It is to him that Susan goes, preparing and rehearsing what it is that she will say. In his study, the scent of pipe tobacco warming the air, she tells him everything. He listens, and more than that, believes her.

For all its dangers, there was beauty in Narnia and Susan notes the dullness of England by comparison. She wanders the house and its grounds, ignoring the deep down craving for someplace greater. It's deathly silent during the day. She walks and walks and sees not another living soul. The house is large enough to keep her and the Macready from running into each other and Lucy spends her days in the wardrobe room, tears spilling from her eyes and prayers tumbling from her lips.

Susan has yet to decide which is worse. The empty days, quiet and lackluster, or the mournful nights when Lucy crawls into bed with her, ice cold hands reaching for Susan's as her blubbering resounds harsh and ugly in the stillness of the room. In a fit of irritability, fueled by sleeplessness and her own sorrow, Susan scolds her and sends her away. Lucy doesn't go far. Susan can still hear her sobs rising from Peter's bed.

It's five days later when Susan's relief at being away is overwhelmed by fear for her brothers. So she stands outside the professor's room, hand poised to knock. It's time to tell her mother. Isn't it? Her sons are missing, quite possibly dead. She has a right to know, hasn't she? Susan only needs to find a way of phrasing it without sounding mad. If she asked, she knows the professor would willingly make the phone call in her stead. But before she knocks, a voice in the back of her mind tells her to check the wardrobe one last time before making a fuss.

When she steps into the wardrobe room, there's a chill in the air and a tang she now recognizes. The door is open and Lucy is already disappearing between the rows of coats, snowflakes drifting out in her wake. Susan rushes forward before the portal closes. It doesn't bear thinking about what would have happened had she been only a moment later coming into the room. She doesn't like to think of how Lucy didn't wait for her.

It's a repeat theatre performance. The story is the same but the nuances have changed. Here they are, hiking through the snow of a magical land in summer dresses and borrowed coats. But this time, it is not wonder she feels but urgency tinged with dread. Lucy plows ahead, quick and determined. Susan trails behind, eyeing her surroundings with a mixture of suspicion and hesitancy. But she can't ignore how being back in this place is like laying the last piece of a jigsaw into place on the table.

In the end, it doesn't matter how closely she watches the trees. Faster than she can process, she and Lucy are snatched by strong arms and marched at a breakneck pace through the woods. It must be late afternoon, for dusk is already falling and the shadows make it difficult to see what manner of creatures push her and her sister on. There's the occasional snatch of fur, the unmistakable glint of weapons, a snort here or a growl there. It's only when, after what Susan estimates to be two or three hours of walking, they come to a clearing that she knows they haven't been found by the witch's followers.

A roaring fire in the center of the camp illuminates the scene. Fauns, Centaurs, Satyrs and a collection of Animals run this way and that, carrying baskets of food or bundles of weapons. There's not an idle soul to be seen, all tending to their tasks as if their lives depend on it. Susan doesn't have time to stop and study it in full as she and Lucy are prodded through the throng to the largest of the hastily pitched tents that clutter the area.

A firm push to their backs has the girls stumbling through the flap and Susan rights herself only to have the breath rush from her body. At the table, dark head bent over a map, is Edmund. He lifts his gaze and for a moment, he locks eyes with Susan and time freezes because she doesn't know who this stranger is. Then Lucy throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around his middle, and the connection is broken.

He's taller, certainly. And his lifestyle has clearly made him lean and wiry. But that's not what catches Susan off guard. It's not even the deference he's shown as he leads them through the camp, how the loyal Narnians bow and move aside for him to pass. It's something deeper. Something in the way he moves with his shoulders like a lion prowling for a hunt. How his eyes swallow light instead of reflecting it out. There's a tightness to his stride, a calculation in his expression, unfamiliar angles and hollows in his face like a garish mask that frightens Susan when she sees it in the glow of the bonfire.

He arranges clothing, food and shelter for them with efficiency and seemingly nothing more. Lucy bombards him with thousands of questions. He brushes them off with a poise Susan envies, stating that there will be time for questions later. Then he goes to return to his tent. Susan thinks she sees him pause, that he casts a look over his shoulder that holds some emotion that is not cold. But there is a pair of Dryads approaching and they are rather in the way so she can not be sure.

That night, Susan can't sleep. She hears activity beyond the walls of her tent. She slips out just in time to catch Edmund leading a band of soldiers off into the woods. They move swiftly north. A Faun is tending the fire. Susan asks him the meaning of it. He's skittish and refuses to answer, telling her she should return to her tent and rest. Susan can't sleep.

She's sitting on a log by the dying embers of the fire, breath misting in the early morning light, when Edmund returns. Leaping to her feet, she has words perched on the tip of her tongue but they dissolve once she sees the blood. A ghastly tear stretches from his collarbone down to wrap around the first of his ribs. He is not the only one. The entire company bears injuries.

Edmund only spares her a glance before disappearing into his tent. A Centaur brushes past Susan, a Leopard carried in his massive arms. Edmund reappears in the same breath, strides purposeful as he approaches the Leopard. Susan moves closer and it's then that she sees what he holds in his hands. Lucy's cordial. He tips it into the Cat's limp jaws. To no effect. The Leopard succumbed to her wounds before reaching the camp. Edmund's shoulders bow for a moment before he straightens and issues orders for the wounded to be cared for and the dead to be buried.

The Narnians look at her askance when she enters Edmund's tent without permission. She doesn't care. She doesn't need their permission or approval. Despite the sun climbing the sky, the heavy material keeps the tent shrouded in gloom. Edmund's shirt is off and bloody rags scatter the surface of the table. Susan swallows hard. Even in the dimness, she can pick out multiple scars scattered across his skin.

"If you have the cordial," her voice sounds unnaturally loud, "why don't you use it?"

Edmund doesn't look up from his attempt to bind his shoulder. "It's only for the most dire of injuries. We can't afford to waste it."

Susan comes up behind him and takes the cloth from his fingers. Though the blood makes her ill at ease, her fingers are more skilled and her position more suited to the angle of the wound. "That Leopard...you could have saved her if you had taken the cordial with you."

Edmund snorts at that, a sound more bitter than any Susan's heard him make before. "And risk it falling into the hands of the Witch?" As soon as Susan ties the bandage, he pulls away from her. He replaces his shirt gingerly, Susan's hands curling into fists to keep from helping him. "No. It's safer if we keep the cordial as far from her as possible."

A thought strikes Susan. "How did you find it? Lucy was wearing it the day we went back."

Edmund tilts his head. "Magic, I suppose. I found it when it was needed."

"Does that mean…" Susan trails off. By the look on his face, Edmund knows what she wants to ask but he won't say the words for her. "Have you found my horn then?"

From the table, Edmund takes a length of cord with a key on it. He uses the key to unlock a chest in the corner and then hangs the cord around his neck. He lifts the lid and produces both Susan's horn and her bow. The weapon she is not pleased to see. But the horn is a welcome sight. She takes it and runs her fingers over the intricate carvings.

"Have you tried blowing it?"

Edmund laughs. "To let the Witch know where we are?"

"The horn brings help," Susan says.

Edmund lifts a hand to cut her off. "There is no one to help us."

Lucy takes well to life in the camp. As she always does, she makes friends with everyone she meets. It's easy to see the difference her joyful nature brings to the weary soldiers. Even when the camp is packed up and moved to keep it from being found by the witch's scouts, when the raiding party comes back bruised and bloody, Lucy's high spirits do not fade. Her smiles are better medicine than all the potions and poultices she's learning from the Dryads. Edmund still hasn't told her about her cordial. Neither has Susan.

It's frightening to watch Edmund hold a war council. Susan sits in the shadows, hidden and possibly forgotten, while his closest advisers and generals hang on his every word. There isn't a single careless thought or ill informed decision that crosses his lips. In England, before he became so beastly, Edmund's teachers used to comment on his brilliance. Ahead of his peers, he was. Gifted with a mind that could accomplish anything, they said. To see such intelligence applied to battle turns Susan's stomach.

The entire camp is celebrating a victory. Wine flows freely, the many barrels stolen from right under the witch's nose. Spirits are high and the fire is bright. There's laughing and drinking, singing and dancing. Against all odds, the Narnian rebels managed to outwit Fenris and his secret police, steal a caravan of supplies en route to the witch's garrison and kill an entire battalion of her soldiers, all without injury to themselves. Susan weaves through the revelers, wrinkling her nose at the carousing company.

Edmund rarely indulges himself in such celebrations. This time is an exception. With a cup of wine in hand, he climbs a stack of crates and shouts out a toast. To their victory. To the bravery of his soldiers. To the downfall of the White Witch, may she burn in hell! The crowd roars approval. Susan's had enough. She snatches Edmund by the arm and drags him away from the cheers. Away from the fire and the songs and the wine.

"What of Peter?"

The wine flush doesn't leave his face but Edmund's expression darkens. Susan presses on.

"Is he dead?"

Edmund's shoulders become rigid, backbone straining with pressure.

"In all the time since Lucy and I came back you haven't so much as mentioned his name. Why is that? Is he dead? Turned to stone?"

"No."

"What then?"

He turns away, faces the forest. The moon streaks through the branches and alights on the pommel of his sword. A chill wind has started, causing Susan to draw her cloak tighter around her. There's a beat of silence that stretches, a sort of suspense that sets her teeth on edge.

"Tell me." It's more of a whisper than a demand but Edmund hears it all the same. He twists his head to stare at her over his shoulder, chin lowered and eyes narrowed.

"He is a prisoner of the White Witch."

Susan's jaw locks and against her will, stinging tears prick at the corners of her eyes. Mutely, she shakes her head once, twice. Forces her lips apart. "And you've done nothing."

Edmund's eyes flash and he whips around. "That's not true."

"Then why isn't he here? Why haven't you rescued him?" Despite the cold wind, Susan feels her cheeks heating.

"I've tried!"

She scoffs. "Clearly not hard enough."

"It's not that simple," begins Edmund.

She knows they shouldn't be having this argument. Not now, at this hour, with Edmund drunk but she can't help it. "If you really wanted Peter back, you wouldn't waste your time on these ridiculous raids. Is a barrel of wine worth more than your own brother?"

Edmund throws his cup. It knocks against a tree and splatters the surrounding snow red. He stalks toward her. "You haven't been here. You don't know what it's like-"

"No, here's what I do know. I know you have an army at your disposal. I know the witch is not kind to her prisoners. I know Lucy cried for him every day when we were in England."

Very deliberately, he takes a deep breath, calming himself and thinking before speaking. "This may be hard for you to understand, but there's a lot more at stake than Peter's life. I can't think only of him but of my people."

"Oh yes." Susan's lips curl in disgust. "It's all about power, isn't it? Isn't that why you betrayed us in the first place? To gain some sort of position of power? When the Witch didn't make you a king, you came to Aslan, foolishly believing him to be any more capable than she. With him gone, all you have left is this ragged band of followers."

"Mind how you speak of him." Edmund's tone is low, like a coiled snake in the underbrush.

"Don't pretend you think otherwise," Susan snaps. "In spite of all his promises, Aslan is dead. There is no victory, no kingdom waiting for us. Give up this madness before it kills you."

Conditioned by war, Edmund's fingers hover at his sword, aching to draw the blade. "If it were not for me, Aslan would still be alive."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps he would be a statue in the witch's collection."

"Peter believed this war was worth fighting."

Anger surges through Susan, hot and sudden. "Peter knew nothing of war! He should have never made that choice. And look what's happened because of it."

"I have to finish what he started." Edmund folds his arms across his chest.

"I wonder if you've lost sight of what that truly is."

Susan turns on her heel, marches back to camp and goes straight to her tent. The noise of celebration continues until dawn.

The next few days are less than pleasant. Despite the recent success, there's a distinct tension hanging over the camp. Even Lucy can sense it, dampening her customary cheerfulness. Susan keeps to her tent. On the rare occasions she does leave, she makes every effort to avoid Edmund. It's childish but her stubbornness won't make allowances for anything else.

In the end, Edmund makes the first move to restitution. He brings her a flower, a miracle in and of itself given how the world is locked in winter.

"I've given a lot of thought to what you said," he says.

Susan absorbs herself in the flower.

"You're right."

She's listening now, even if she still won't look at him.

"When I took you and Lucy back to the wardrobe I had every intention of staying here to rescue Peter. I suppose somewhere along the way, I lost sight of that. I've been too focused on winning battles without consideration of the war."

Finally she meets his eyes. There's a heaviness in them, even as his posture remains rigid. His hands are folded behind his back, feet shoulder's width apart. He's facing forward, chin up.

"You reminded me of my true mission." He wets his lips, a nervous tell she hasn't seen from him in years. "Which is why I've decided to launch a final assault on the witch's castle. There's no sense in dragging this out for years. Our army is at full strength, while the witch's forces are scattered. This is our best chance to defeat her once and for all."

"And our best chance to save Peter," Susan adds quietly.

Edmund nods. Silence sweeps in like a chill draft. Finally, "We march tomorrow." When Susan makes no reply, he leaves.

Though she should feel vindicated, Susan only feels hollow.


	3. Desecration and Connection

_for _**shewriteswords, **who asked so nicely =)

* * *

When Edmund announces the final battle, Lucy expresses her intent to join him. Immediately, he forbids it. Peter didn't want the girls anywhere near war. Lucy plants her hands on her hips and informs him that Father Christmas himself gifted her a knife and if that isn't a sign that she's meant for more, she doesn't know what is. At the mention of her dagger, Edmund stiffens, glancing around before taking her hand and leading her to his tent.

Using the key from the cord around his neck, Edmund opens a trunk and pulls out her knife and cordial. He offers them to her with uncharacteristic hesitancy. Reverently, Lucy traces the Lion's head at the top of the dagger. Edmund says he shouldn't have kept these from her. But he's giving them back now as a sign of trust. He wants Lucy to keep them because she might need them. If the Narnians lose, he wants her and Susan to run back to the wardrobe. She might have to use her gifts along the way. Lucy nods slowly.

"Please don't be angry with me."

Edmund's final request is so open and vulnerable, making him look the youngest she's ever seen him, all Lucy can do is wrap her arms around his middle. He reciprocates very briefly, unaware that she has plans of her own.

They march quickly. In the crush of Animals and Creatures, Lucy escapes notice. Edmund divides his army, surrounding the witch's castle. There's an evil in this towering structure of ice. Lucy can feel it physically, just as much as she feels the cold that bites at her face and hands, cuts straight through her cloak and into her skin.

It's chaos. The Narnians overcome the guards and breach the gates. From there, the battle degenerates into individual brawls as the witch's followers scramble to combat the flood of troops overrunning the courtyard of statues. There are hundreds of statues, of all races and ages. It sickens Lucy.

Her small size gives her an advantage. She keeps to the outskirts of the fight, slipping along the frozen walls until she's within the castle proper. Demented creatures run this way and that, disorganized and devoid of leadership. Lucy is able to go through the halls undetected. She's not quite sure where she's headed but there's a pull in her stomach that leads her onward.

When she descends into the depths of the castle, the noise of battle finally fades. The clash of metal, howls of rage, cries of the dying. It all becomes muffled and distant. She finds herself in a maze of twisting passageways, all of them shrouded in curling wreaths of mist. That pull inside of her leads her to the deepest dungeon, to a cell guarded by a dwarf in a red hat and fur trimmed coat.

He is surprised by her arrival. When she draws her dagger, his eyes drift to her cordial and light up with greed. His mistress would become nearly immortal if she possessed the juice of the fireflower. Lucy draws her cloak over the bottle, hiding it and her hand from view. Very carefully, she uncorks the bottle and proposes a trade. If he gives her the key to the cell, she will give him the bottle. As she's speaking, she tips out the precious cordial, ignoring how it soaks into her dress. The dwarf laughs, eager to make the trade. If the Witch has access to the cordial, it won't matter if the prisoner goes free. A Son of Adam is easy to recapture. The secret to invulnerability, less so. When she's certain the last drop has spilled from the bottle, Lucy replaces the cork and unclasps the leather pouch from her belt.

They exchange items and the dwarf sprints away, eager to show off his prize. It won't be long before he discovers he's been tricked, Lucy knows. But as she looks between the metal bars, spying Peter's hunched figure against the far wall, she can't be sorry for the trade she's made. After jamming the key into the rusted lock, it takes throwing all her weight against it to force the iron gate open. As the metal whines, Peter shrinks further away, pressing himself closer to the wall.

Lucy rushes over to him, stopping abruptly when she realizes the state he's in. Contrasting sharply with the ratty crimson of his tabard, his skin is devoid of color, save for the ugly pallet of bruising scattered across his body. Several of his fingers are swollen, bent at funny angles. His face is turned away from her, leaving her to stare at his hair. The golden locks are longer than Lucy's ever known him to wear, but torn in places. It reminds her of Aslan's mane, savagely ripped away at the Stone Table by knives, hands and claws. The memory is unpleasant and Lucy longs to replace it with one of joy. She kneels beside him and gently turns his face to her.

His eyes are snow white with shards of icy blue littering the area around them. Lucy chokes on a gasp. He shudders beneath her fingertips, breath fractured and halting. Pushing aside her shock, Lucy makes quiet soothing noises, repeating his name and tracing tender hands down his cheeks.

"Lucy?"

His voice is a ghost. Lucy acknowledges it all the same. His hand comes up, fumbling a moment before finding her face. He traces over the slope of her forehead, down her nose. Pauses with his thumb on her mouth. Then his arms gradually come around her, oh so slowly, and he draws her to his chest. She hugs wholeheartedly in return, nuzzling into the hollow of his neck. They hold each other for a very long time.

A scream. Drawn out and horrible and ancient. It blasts through the castle, reaching down to the dungeon. Lucy covers her ears and winces from the frightful noise. When it finally stops, it leaves them ringing. She straightens, pulling away from Peter to reach into her sleeve. Her handkerchief is freshly laundered and she uses gentle fingers to tie it around Peter's eyes. He jerks at the unexpected contact but gives no other response. The fabric covers the damage well.

Footsteps along the passage and Lucy whirls, knife in hand. It's only Edmund rushing into the cell. Upon seeing Peter, he drops to his knees and embraces him. He is slicked in blood. Peter flinches.

The coronation is less spectacular than Lucy pictured. But then, this isn't a fairy tale. Governing a country is much harder than she imagined. Having Peter hovering beside her every minute of every day doesn't make it any easier. He's skittish around Edmund and whenever Susan offers, he insists on Lucy instead.

She tries to be kind. It's not Peter's fault he needs help now. Help with everything. From navigating the spacious castle to having a meal, lacing his boots to meeting strangers. Not to mention, all his new quirks. She has to remember not to close the door when they go into a room. He wants the doors open. She has to tell him who is around him, even if it's a servant passing in the hall. She can only put fruits and vegetables on his plate. Meat is no longer palatable to him. There's more and it's overwhelming and disruptive.

There's only so much she can take. His peculiar behavior is unsettling, made all the more distressing when contrasted with the courageous leader he was becoming when she returned to England. He's supposed to be the older brother, taking care of her. The role reversal leaves her vaguely disturbed. Exhausted and suffocated, she leaves him.

It's only for one night. She just needs a break, that's all. She overheard mention of the fauns having a dance in the woods. A dance is exactly the kind of distraction she's looking for. It's easy, too easy, to slip away. It's not as though Peter can see her leave. She runs to the woods and dances and dances and dances.

Refreshed and delightfully tired, she returns to find the castle in an uproar. Peter was inconsolable without her. All the good feelings she gained at the dance vanish instantly. She goes to him and he captures her hand in his, refusing to let go. She soothes him in the only way he'll accept - she promises never to leave him again.

When he's finally asleep, she staggers from his room, crying now. Resentment. Hopelessness. Frustration. They're all welling up and drowning her. Edmund is leaned against the wall across from the door. He looks almost as drained as she feels. Seeking comfort rather than having to give it, she runs and buries her face in his middle. Asking why. Why her? Why not anybody else? Why is she the one Peter clings to?

"You always were the one to make him happiest."

Edmund's words stick with Lucy. She mulls them over, nurturing them until they become an idea in her mind. It's rather simple, really. If she cannot bear the burden of helping Peter, Peter must learn to help himself. It won't be easy. But she is ready for the challenge.

When she proposes the idea to Edmund, he is skeptical. Lucy tells him he should trust her. His campaign against a band of Fell creatures pulls him away before he has the chance to. Given Edmund's reaction, Lucy decides against informing Susan and instead goes straight to Peter. He is uncertain but willing to try and Lucy loves him just a little bit more for that.

They start small. Little tasks with low risk. The more skills Peter masters, the more his confidence grows. Lucy is pleased with his progress. By the time Edmund returns, Peter is able to go about his daily routines without an assistant. With his newfound independence, he rediscovers his role as the oldest sibling. The relief Lucy feels is even larger than the responsibility that had been crushing her.

Edmund and Susan are astonished at Peter's transformation. Lucy never doubted. It's still an adjustment but they get by. The Narnians, bless them, think none the less of their king for his lack of sight. Peter is more than capable of dealing with matters of the state. Edmund defends the borders, Susan minds the diplomatic relationships. And Lucy is free to dance barefoot with their people under the harvest moon.

When the White Stag is spotted, some years later, the kings and queens stiffen in their chairs, forks poised halfway to mouths. Time holds still for only a moment before Susan thanks Fox for his report and they go back to their meal. A hunt is planned and the royals prepare. It doesn't need to be said aloud for them to know what their wish will be, should they catch the Stag. Eyes on Peter, Lucy climbs into the saddle, her heart an anxious flutter behind her chest.


	4. Despondency and Cruelty

for **nessieloulouu, **and **guest** who asked for an update.

this chapter is not a happy one. also has some gross parts.

* * *

When they tumble out of the wardrobe, the first thing Peter sees is the floor. Edmund is the next.

In school, a lifetime ago or not yet begun, he learned tales of djinn. Powerful creatures of magic that fulfilled wishes, but in the most twisted ways possible. He's known cruelty personally. To imagine that the White Stag could be sadistic is unpleasant. But the doubts linger.

Colors. Mesmerizing and dizzying. The copper of Lucy's hair. Alternating patterns on Susan's plaid skirt. Even the drab slate of the overcast sky. He can tell by the other's reactions that England doesn't compare with Narnia. But he can hardly remember what Narnia looked like (blue and white and ice and snow and blue blue blue) so England, to him, is stunning.

They take their supper with the professor and though he offers to listen, no one feels much like talking. The loss is still too fresh, severed arteries not yet squeezed in tourniquets. Per the professor's request, Mrs. Macready has prepared a comforting pot roast. Chunks of meat float in a puddle of gravy, surrounded by potato lumps and Peter stares at his plate. Just stares at it. Until Susan kicks his ankle under the table and gestures meaningfully with her fork.

He represses a shiver and picks up his knife (not sharp enough to use as a weapon) and cuts into the first cube of meat. It shreds beneath the blade, stringy bits writhing haphazardly in the sauce. Cutting the meat takes time. Takes lots of time. He takes his time cutting and cutting and not actually eating because he can't he can't - Susan kicks him again. The professor is watching.

Gathering his courage (ridiculous to do so at the dinner table of all places), he spears some meat, adds a potato and shoves the whole thing into his mouth.

The meat catches in his molars. Tendons and muscle and little bits of fur because he doesn't have a way to skin the rat or cook it and the thing is almost frozen anyway but it still squirms a bit because he hasn't learned to bash their skulls against the ice yet but he will he'll learn to use his fingers as bait and then snatch them up. He bites them and the blood rushes into his mouth when he ravenously tears into them the blood is warm so warm the only warmth in this prison. The blood keeps him alive the blood the blood the meat the fur the crunchy brittle bones. Meat stiff but he doesn't care it's eat or starve. He can't eat what the witch sends. The witch sends him whichever poor soul couldn't last the night in the cell beside his. They haven't learned. They don't know about the rats. Don't know to grab them by their scrawny necks and smash smash smash into the floor three times should do it mangy things are barely alive anyway just break the skull and start at the belly. Rip into it with incisors and tear it out chew it up swallow it down and go back for more. Slurp the blood and gnaw the bones from the chest to the tail. Have to eat the broken skull and the skinny tail too don't forget to lick the gore from your fingers or else the witch will find your secret and she'll take the rats away and you won't have the stringy bloody cold meat meat meat-

There's vomit. First he spits up his dinner, half mashed meat and potato falling into the gravy with quick plops. Then it's slimy yellow bile that dribbles off his chin and dangles in the space between his mouth and his plate. Coughing and sputtering and everyone alarmed, scraping back chairs as they stand. Vaguely, Peter is aware Lucy is crying. That's the important thing. As he's choking on meat that isn't rat, with fresh vomit smeared across his lips, he thinks of Lucy's tears. And what it's like to see her face when she cries.

He spends his nights flat on his back. Looks to the ceiling and synchronizes his breaths to Edmund's. If it's a good night, Edmund's breathing will slow and Peter's will too and he can wait until the sun strikes the window pane with lavender dawn. On bad nights, neither will sleep. There's no calm inhale-exhale, rhythm-tempo. On those nights, he feels the weight of Edmund's eyes like a skewer between his ribs, pinning him to the mattress. (In the morning he will check for blood stains on the sheets.)

The trees are dead here. He wanders through them in spite of that. Or maybe because? He leaves in the morning, before the breakfast he's not going to eat, and he walks and stumbles and walks through the dead trees. They are green and growing and oh so lifeless. Clouds gather on the horizon and move gradually forward until they drop a curtain of tepid rain that moistens his clothes and plasters his hair to his face. After the rain passes, he shuffles back inside just in time for the dinner he won't eat. Susan doesn't say anything but her lips press together in clear disappointment. (How many times did she do that? Back in Narnia, where he couldn't see her face? Could never know how much she disapproves is ashamed of him and his condition his decisions?)

Time is a manacle around his ankle. Time is a boggle's hammer blow on his finger. Time is misery and pain. Trapped. He's trapped again. He's got his sight back and his youth back and his fingers are perfectly straight no crooked bones or scar tissue circling his ankle or the sparkling fragments of ancient magic dotted at the corners of his eyes. He's whole and well and young. A child. More useless now than when he was blind. The sun rises and hangs in the sky and won't go down for a seeming eternity until it gives way to the endless night that only breaks when the sun takes the sky again and over over over the cycle always unending light and dark the procession of time hours weeks minutes hours. Nothing to do nothing that matters nothing matters.

"Think of it like taking a holiday," the professor suggests. "Plenty of opportunity for games and reading and the like."

Peter doesn't want games. He doesn't want to read. He wants - The want gnaws at him, stealing the smiles that should stretch across his lips, steals the health warm country air should be suffusing him with, steals away his ability to treasure the miracle he thought he needed.

They're to go back. Back to Finchley. The professor's was always a holding spot and not a destination. Like the cloak room at a railway station. Somewhere to stash the children until they were summoned. Whether to Narnia or London. He will remember the professor's as the place between worlds. The goodbye (at least they get a goodbye this time) between themselves and the professor is somewhat stilted, though Lucy does throw her arms around his middle and he pats her head.

They arrive and Peter doesn't like it. He doesn't like London. He doesn't like their house. He doesn't like the garden or the piano or the room he shares with Edmund. He doesn't like the supper Mother made to celebrate their return. (He doesn't like his mother.) He doesn't like the neighbors or their cat, the tree with branches that scratch at the girls' window, the book of detective stories he never got the chance to finish. It's petty and aggravating. This is his home. His things. He should feel comfortable here. Instead, the umbrella stand makes his skin crawl.

Lucy, bless her, tries to help. But he's got his sight now. He doesn't need her. (It would be easier to brush aside her hurt at his refusals if he couldn't see how her lower lips wobbles.)

It's Susan's birthday. Celebrating an age she left behind years ago. The regal queen she became shows through when she accepts their mother's doting with a calm grace that only throws Peter's own frustrations into sharp relief. It's Susan's birthday and he has nothing to give her. Nothing.

They're seated around the table as Mother sets a flat cake in front of Susan and Peter can't stand it. Can't stand the drooping flowers in the centerpiece that have no smell. Can't stand the buzz of the electric light dangling above their heads. Can't stand to see that brittle smile on his sister's face when she is made to celebrate a childhood outgrown.

He leaves. Pushes away from the table and stalks out the front door. No coat, but the evening is mild. Doesn't know where he's going. Doesn't particularly care. Hates this city and this land and this life. This second chance he doesn't know what to do with. (Third if he's counting his rescue from the Witch.) Why take him away from England to rule a magical land if he was always meant to return to England? Why take away the physical reminders of the mental burdens he can't ever be free of?

A pub. Or rather the alley behind it. Three against one. He grins, predatory and eager. The young men are in uniform and he's only too happy to dirty them. Mud, blood, and beer. He dodges one, punches another, and swings the last one into the brick siding of the closest building. They're on him again in an instant, furious that this kid is, for the moment, winning.

He's nearly the same age as they. There's a reason he picked this fight. These soldiers. These children in an adult war. Out of everything in England, that is familiar. That is a constant. He wonders if they've seen combat. If they know what it is to strike an enemy down. To drive your weapon so far into a chest, to cut through viscera and tendons with the impact jarring your arm in its socket and the guts spill out with the sword, insides on the outside the whole field littered in corpses smell of death and emptied bowels and gasps groans howls the dead the dying the killing killing you killing them and them almost killing you and Her. Advancing, grinning, laughing she wants you will catch you and hurt you. The hurt is coming. She toys with you and trips you and stabs her sword through your arm and you think that is pain but you don't know pain. Not yet. First, the battle. First, the killing. First, you in armor dealing in death.

The ground is slick from spilled alcohol and other vile liquids. Peter slips and his opponents take advantage. One shoves him into the wall, knocking his head against it once, twice. Another comes and then he is gripped between the two of them, arms pinned and defenseless. The last drives his knee into Peter's middle. The air leaves him and he sags, dragging the two with him to the ground. The third doesn't relent, kicking his stomach, his ribs, anywhere he can reach.

A grunt and the beating stops, his assailant knocked to the ground. Flash of dark hair and Peter knows. Knows who has come (not to his rescue because he doesn't need one). He started this fight. He can bloody well finish it. Rolling over, he jumps to his feet and attacks the closest of the soldiers. Wrestling for dominance, snarling like a wolf like Maugrim and his snapping jaws the weight of fur and bones his first kill.

Sharp whistle from the mouth of the alley and it's some older fellows, also in military dress. The young soldiers freeze, Peter takes advantage, getting in a final solid punch on the one who, from the feel of it, broke his ribs, before the three of them scamper over to their companions. Then they're gone. Just walk away like Peter and his angry child-shaped fists aren't threatening in the least.

"You're welcome." Edmund stands behind and to the left, arms crossed.

Peter turns and hits him square on the jaw. And it feels right. (He always equates Edmund to swords scraping out of sheaths, with blades against bones. Associates him with the smell slick touch of blood.) Edmund, unprepared, loses his footing, backing up until the wall steadies him. Chest heaving, Peter watches the way he cradles his jaw. Savors the shock on his face.

"I had it sorted."

He leaves, alone. Walks back to the house, alone. Cleans up, alone. Lies in bed and wishes he could pretend he isn't itching for another confrontation. It's a long time before the door creaks open and a figure slips through the shadows and settles in Edmund's bed, face turned away from him.

Just because he has his eyesight back doesn't mean he's forgotten how important his other senses can be. He spent so long relying on them, he can't dismiss them. But how he wishes he could. London is a wretched city, full of chaotic noise and unpleasant odors. The air is thicker here, harder to breathe. His clothes compress his body into the shape of an English boy but there is more Creature than Man under the disguise of his skin.

His mother pets his hair absently as she passes behind his chair. He wants to rage at her. _Can you not see, Mother, that I am not your son? I am touched by Magic. I was suckled at the breast of War. Cradled by Torture. Nursed by Pain. Fur and Teeth were my companions and I left Childhood behind for the backbreaking weight of a Crown. You made me promise to watch after the others and I broke that vow. They too became changed. We are all Changed. Do you not see, Mother? I am not your son._

Lucy will sneak into his room when she seeks comfort. When the longing for their land overwhelms her. She sneaks into his room and climbs into his bed and his arms go around her stiffly. He can't give what he doesn't have.

None of the others say it outright to him but he's sure they're thinking it. They should have been more careful with what they wished for. But here they are. Wish fulfilled and the price is too steep. What they got in return is not worth what they lost. (Even if they don't hate him, he hates himself enough for them all.)

Blood. Leaking from his nose. Peeking out of his knuckles. Dabbed along his collar and spattered on his trousers. Another day and another beating as he walks the streets, looking for a fight and creating one. (The pain has stuffed him full and he can't contain it all it bubbles up and over and out. Just pain. Spreading spreading from one person to another.) Mother gasps when she sees him in the bathroom. He ignores her, cleans himself up. After, he ignores her still.

At night, when he finally manages to close his eyes and drift off to sleep, the rumble of car engines replacing the gentle whisper of Dryad song, the memories come thick and fast. Distorted and mangled, but haunting all the same. The White Witch stands over him and she smiles, beautiful and terrible as she casts her spell. The ice creeps in, steals over his eyes. Blinds him and he panics panics she laughs her laughter his panic fear dread and the _pain_. Oh Aslan the pain (but Aslan is dead).

In his dreams, his siblings are dead too. Lucy and Susan become stone. He can't see them can't see anything but he hears the witch laughing hears Lucy crying and the crackling of flesh turning solid. In his dreams, Edmund is stabbed though, pierced right in the stomach. In his dreams, the witch chops Edmund up. In his dreams, she serves him the bloody lumps on a silver tray and he is so hungry but he can't wouldn't won't his face her hands the meat jammed between his clamped shut jaws. A warm explosion of flavor and sanguine juices raw fresh dribbles down his chin she feeds him more he takes it chews it swallows _enjoys_. Wants -

Sickened and sweat-soaked, he jerks awake. The lamp clicks on and it's Edmund, alive and caring and concerned. Peter can't just can't tell him. It's horrifying. It's shameful. It's rightfully been years. He never had these sorts of dreams in Narnia. In Narnia, where the Trees moved and Creatures danced and his wine goblet never ran dry. Go back to sleep, he tells Edmund. It was only a dream. Go back to sleep.

The dreams don't stop (full of death and helplessness and desperation and her and him and darkness blackness lack of light lack of hope) and he spends his days in fearful anticipation and his nights in nauseated shame and there's no one to talk to no one to understand to comfort he doesn't have friends must protect his family can't be weak don't tell them don't let them know this is your problem you're going to bloody well handle it. No rest and no respite. The shame anger guilt always maybe grief deserved. It's consuming him and he doesn't know what to do has tried everything nothing's working nothing gets better trapped in England trapped in a body that doesn't fit right trapped in a world not his own.

He's difficult to live with, he knows he is. He treats his mother like a stranger, meeting her affection with distant cordiality. He can't provide Lucy with comfort, muscles going rigid when she latches onto him in an embrace. He pushes Susan away, won't engage in her attempts to make London home now that they've lost their kingdom. And Edmund has to put up with the nightmares and the fighting.

Too young to be a soldier, though he's led an army. He tries to find a job. Anything to keep his mind distracted, to put his pent up energy to use (the knowledge that he could be capable if given the chance, if a crown lay on his brow and he was seated on a throne and could dispense justice, write laws, ordain peace). But times are tough. There are no jobs to be had. Not by a school age boy, at least. It's demeaning and humiliating and each failure weighs heavier on him than the last, until it's almost a relief to hear the school year is beginning.

He packs his trunk and doesn't examine his own thoughts too closely, scared that if he looks he'll discover he's glad. Glad to be leaving this cramped house with the mother he doesn't consider his parent. Happy to be out of Lucy's suffocating reach, away from Susan's insistence to accept circumstances as they are. Relieved to move out of a shared bedroom with Edmund. His brother, the only one who could possibly comprehend what it's like to be tainted by Her, and he's making him bear the brunt of the aftermath. For both their sakes, it's better that they're separated.

Location doesn't matter. He starts a fight in the subway station. Lucy worries, Susan shakes her head, and Edmund joins in. The cycle can't be broken.

Until there's a pull on his arm and a jolt in his gut and the wind sweeps in, sweeps away the bricks, the lights, the station. There's a noise like a horn and he feels the sun on his face, hears the lap of water at sand.

And loses his sight once more.


End file.
